“You might believe me, you might not. But I never could have harmed your mother or your brother. Not any child, for that matter. I wasn’t the one who killed your father either. None of you were supposed to be there that night. But even that doesn’t absolve me.”

I cannot speak.

“How desperately we struggle for meaningless things—revolution, martyrdom, bricks of gold,” he says. “When the only thing worth fighting for is a glimpse of heaven in this life.”

The darkness beneath the skirts of the evergreens deepens. The soft glow of the sodium lamp falls upon the stoic letters of Kareem’s name, a small miracle arranged by the architect of light.

Chapter 49

“You what?” Mom says, lowering her coffee mug. Two more people step up to the barista and order without looking at the menu. I move my handbag to the empty chair beside me.

“If I don’t go now,” I explain, “it means I don’t really want to know what happened.”

“It most certainly does not mean that.” Mom rejects my logic. She gives her coffee another stir, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. “You don’t have anything to prove, Aryana. But I get it. I understand why you want to go. I just want to be sure you’re prepared for whatever you might find there.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, my words weightless.

Mom’s eyes close for a beat, her face melts into an expression of intertwined angst and love.

“This day was always coming,” she says, locking eyes with me. “I did think you’d talk to me before booking a flight, though.”

She is trying not to feel hurt, but I can see that she is. I wasn’t trying to keep her in the dark.

“I love you, Mom,” I say, the words rolling easily off my tongue. They didn’t always. For years, loving Mom felt like a betrayal. I could hardly acknowledge it to myself without feeling stained. “I’ve waited decades. I can’t wait another second.”

Mom puts her hand over mine, and her eyes well with tears.

“Even if nothing comes of this search, I want to take the ring back,” I say. The stones had grown heavier over the past few years. The ring felt less like a talisman and more like a rusted yoke.

The coffee shop’s door opens again. Mom, facing the door, raises her hand. Clay nods and walks over to join us. I hang my bag on my chair to make room for him.

“Clay,” he says, shaking Mom’s hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Antonia,” she replies. “And I’m glad to meet you as well.”

Clay slides into the wooden chair and sets his phone down on the table.

“It’s good of you to make time for us,” Mom says.

Clay grins.